


In a New York Minute

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-06-01
Updated: 2002-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-20 13:31:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11336502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: The end of the Actual Miles Series





	In a New York Minute

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

In a New York Minute

## In a New York Minute

#### by Mik

Date: Saturday, February 09, 2002 11:25 PM 

TITLE: In a New York Minute  
NAME: Mik  
E-MAIL:   
**CATEGORY: MAJOR ANGST!!!!!!!**  
RATING: R. M/K. This story contains hints of slash i.e. m/m sex. So, if you don't like that type of thing - STOP NOW! Forewarned is forearmed. Proceed with caution. Of course if you have four arms you can throw caution to the wind.  
SUMMARY: The end of the Actual Miles Series ARCHIVE: Ask me. I might surprise you and say yes. FEEDBACK: Feedback? Well, yes, if you insist ... TIMESPAN/SPOILER WARNING: Oh ... yeah, everything ... life. I muck a little with canon, but not too much. I beg your indulgence. KEYWORDS: story slash angst Mulder Krycek R DISCLAIMER: Fox Mulder, Alex Krycek, and all other X-Files characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Broadcasting. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from their use. I'd rather say that they really are mine, but I've been advised to deny everything. Author's Notes: This is out of order, and there are other stories from this series, but it was time for this one. If you like this, there's more at http://www.squidge.org/3wstop If you didn't like it, come see me, anyway. Pet the dog. 

* * *

In a New York Minute  
by Mik 

"Mulder." 

Her voice sounded impatient. Standing under the umbrella with me, her body was rigid and restless. 

I looked up and squinted into the persistent rain. "I thought there would be ... someone. He must have had ... someone." 

"Mulder, I need to get the baby out of the cold." 

I swallowed tightly and turned with her, holding the umbrella over her head as she tugged at an assortment of pastel blankets in a bundle at her chest. But I sent one glance back to the wall and the small brass placard. His name. A solitary date. I didn't know what more to add, and somehow that seemed enough. I hated to walk away from it, though. It was a lonely place to be left behind. 

"Mulder." 

I jerked back to her. I'd let her get wet. Somehow I felt a bit like a servant trotting along to make sure that royalty remains in shade, no matter which way she twists and turns. I didn't resent it too much. It seemed to be all I was good for anymore. I stayed close and kept her as dry as possible all the way down to the car. 

I kept the umbrella over her diligently as she bent over the back seat, securing the bundle into an infant seat. She was cooing slightly as she tucked and buckled. The sounds still sounded unnatural from her. 

Or maybe it's me. I'm the one who feels unnatural these days. Surreal. For months after he left I felt as if I was dead. I got up every morning and went through the motions, so no one could suggest that I was suffering depression. I functioned. I answered questions, and did the things required of me. But my heart was always turning back, looking into the darkness of yesterdays, searching to see him coming over the rise and back into my today. 

How many times had we fought and swore it was over only to rush back to one another within days of our goodbyes? I think I always believed he'd come back one more time. 

"Mulder?" 

I lowered my eyes. She was looking up at me. For the first time since I told her about us, she was looking at me with any sort of sympathy or concern. 

"I'm sorry. I really am." 

I answered with a nod. I eased the door shut and moved around the car. Glancing across the top of the car, I looked back to the wall where I'd had the memorial plaque placed. He almost made it back one last time. I felt a tightness in my chest, yanked open the door and tugged the umbrella closed. Before I could slide in behind the wheel, a wave of misery swept over me more intense than I had felt to date. I couldn't let her see it. "Go on," I rasped around the lump in my throat. I backed out of the car. "I'll get a cab." 

"Mulder," she protested, but I was already slamming the door, unfurling the umbrella and striding back up the hill to face the small brass plate again. 

It was a shock being notified by the airline that I'd been listed as next of kin and the beneficiary of his flight insurance. It was so perfunctory, being called to that office, asked to identify his name, the scanned photo ID, his signature. It was like seeing him one last time. In a way, it was looking into his face at his funeral. He was dead. Gone. It only took a minute for him to be ripped out of any future reconciliation we could have had. A New York minute. 

There was no body, of course. How could there be? In that moment he'd become part of history and vapor. I took his effects, I took their money. I took their sympathy, which was patent and boxed into individual portions for all the grieving families. I came back to DC and ordered a plaque. Just to have a place where I could come now and again and feel I was with him. 

Alex Krycek. September 11, 2001. Tower One. 

The tears came at last. The ones I'd resisted since the day I changed the locks and said goodbye. 

* * *

It was dark. I'd long given up on staying dry, and was sitting, cross-legged on the muddy gravel path in front of the wall. The rain had stopped, and left behind a slow, thick drizzle and a winter night chill. I was completely drained. I had given sway to all my grief, and it had poured out of me harder than a January rain. At one point, I had been sitting, arms wrapped tight around my own middle, rocking and sobbing. I wanted to be just as oblivious as he was. I had no way to go on. 

I knew I would. There was my work, there was Scully, and the baby. But I knew I was being dragged back into existence unwillingly. I wanted to stay right there and become part of the grass and the rotting leaves that surrounded his memory. I wanted to become a Pablo Naruda poem. He'd filled my life to the aching point and then drained away, leaving only the ache. 

Scully had called twice. Anxious. Impatient. Come home. Home? A joke. I hadn't had a home since he left me. 

I shivered, remembering his last touch. It wasn't a caress but a shove. And yet, I wanted to feel it again. I wanted to feel him under me, over me, around me, in me. But I wouldn't. And no one took him away from me. I had no one to blame. I pushed him out the door. I was probably dead to him on that day. 

I struggled to my feet. Shook out my soaking coat. Tucked the folded umbrella under my arm. It was too dark now to see it anymore, but I slid my fingers over the raised lettering. I had a feeling I'd never see it again. 

"You're shivering." 

I closed my eyes, my head tipping back. Grief is an amazing thing. More powerful than even I had ever given it credit for. "Ghost or hallucination?" I asked aloud. 

"Which do you want to believe in?" 

I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned slowly. I closed my eyes and opened them again. "I want to believe you're here, and alive, and not just a manifestation of exhaustion and mourning." 

He smiled slightly, sadly, and leaned in. His lips brushed my cheek. "Do I feel like a manifestation?" 

"You were on that plane --" 

"No." 

"But your things, your picture, your wallet --" 

"I was going to go. I had the ticket, I'd checked in and picked up my boarding pass. I was going to California and then on to some connections in Asia. But at the last minute, I decided I couldn't go." 

"Why?" 

His hand left my shoulder to stroke my cheek. "And leave you? At least in Boston I could get down and watch you sometimes. Once I left this country, I knew it wasn't likely I'd ever get back in. I found I couldn't leave you. So, I got off the plane." 

"Did you know --" 

"Oh, my God, no. How do you think I felt, when I saw that on the news that morning? I walked around in a daze for a week." There was a dangerous glimmer in those deep green eyes. "All those people ..." 

It was beginning to sink in. He was real. He was here. I pulled him close. Every hateful thing we'd said became vapor and history. "Why didn't you come? Do you know what I --" 

"I know." He held me just as tight. "But I was practically a fugitive. After all, I got off a doomed plane at the last moment. And I knew they were watching you, since I made you my beneficiary. They expected me to come to you." 

I kissed him hard. "And now?" 

"And now, I want you to come with me. I've got connections in Canada. We can stay up there for a while, then go on to Asia together." He pulled back. "If you'll go with me?" 

I thought. What was I leaving behind. Nothing. Not a damned thing. "I'll go." 

"Scully? The kid?" 

I shook my head. "I'll go." 

His mouth pulled up in what might be called impish on any other occasion. "You won't be able to leave me again." 

I eased back and rubbed at my eyes. "Hadn't you noticed? I never really can." 

"I noticed." He turned and looked at the wall. "Thank you for this." 

"I didn't do it for you. I did it for me." 

"I know," he smiled again and even in the darkness I felt the emotion pouring back into my life, filling me again, soothing the ache he'd left behind. "Thank you for needing to do it. Thank you for needing me." 

I hugged him again, with everything in me. "Thank you for coming back." 

I felt him laugh and then sigh within my arms. "I didn't do it for you. I couldn't stay away any longer." 

And there it was ... my life handed back to me in a moment ... a New York minute. 

  * END - 



Yes, Jaxon ... I actually changed the ending ... because you changed the ending for me. 

* * *

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Mik 


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